I took a creative writing class in college. I wish I had used it more than I have. Life doesn’t follow the path you imagine. One of the lessons my teacher shared with us was a profound short statement: writing is the gift of time. She meant you must keep writing and continually perfect your craft.
My friends, bless them, say I write so well. I feel I have just begun practicing the gift. There is so much more to learn.
The Internet was once the friend of writers everywhere. When I was younger I could find blogs on almost any topic. Now it feels like every Website I visit is made for advertising. Even this site displays some ads. They’re not even my own ads. That is the price for having a free blog.
What is the price we paid for having a free Internet? We became lazy. We shared too much of our hopes and dreams. We fell into social media and never climbed out of the pit. Now everyone who used to blog is retweeting political stories and sharing selfies on Instagram. I hate it. There are days when I want to turn the Internet off and start the world over.
The art of blogging was a special gift. We created a moment where briefly, for a while, everyone shared their thoughts quietly. There was no race to become the next Internet millionaire. But now I view each new blog with suspicion. And what is sadly ironic is that blogging for money is hard work. When I search for sites that share insights about writing and getting published I find too many ads trying to sell me services I don’t want.
The world of writing has changed. Everyone is writing online. But if you browse a bookstore there are still books. Who writes these books? How much money do they make? Why did I never find a career as a famous author? Is it because I didn’t try hard enough or because I didn’t try long enough?
I have a friend from my writing class who still writes every day. She tells me that she is happy just writing as a freelancer. She doesn’t need her name on books. She makes a living from writing for other people. This is called work-for-hire and it was once regarded as the lowest part of the totem pole for professional writers. Now it’s the lifestyle many people seek.
The romantic idea of being a free and independent writer hasn’t died. We still dream of writing whatever we please. We still want the unwashed masses to be enlightened by our painful words. But now we look to the Internet to find that path to success.
The world of journalism is melting around us. Professional news rooms are closing down because it’s too expensive to publish news the old way. I read news stories now that were written by a computer. They are cold, factual, and unpassionate. They lack the feeling and depth of a human soul. This is the world we created. We created it by not clicking on the ads. We created it by not subscribing to printed newspapers and magazines. But who has time to read all those printed things? I haven’t bought a book in over a year. I don’t have any plans to buy a new one. The books I own sit on a shelf, unread, waiting for me to caress them again.
Our love affair with the personal computer has made us betray our own souls. We no longer bare our thoughts in long, passionate chapters of meaningful stories. We soundbite and meme. We quote and share. We have squandered the gift of time. Instead of writing more we write less. Instead of writing more succinctly we write less meaningfully.
In that desert of passionless words I cherish every oasis of thoughtful passion I discover. I drink from the words of human thought and feel once again. I cherish each beautiful phrase because they are the rare and special gifts that time bestowed upon me. But they result from someone else’s time. They are not my words. I only feel what others are saying and it hurts me to know I am not alone.